I know most of you read rather than listen to these. But this week, there are no words to read because I didn’t have anything prepared. I didn’t write anything new, and by the time I sat down to, I didn’t have time to write, edit, and record.

Instead, I closed my eyes and spoke into the microphone.

I felt like I was telling you a long-distance secret, sharing a memory that’s buried so deep its presence is unknown to me until the moment it’s leaving my lips. It’s the kind of thing whispered at sleepovers to the blackness of a popcorn ceiling.

The kind of dialogue that happens when the rest of the place has cleared out, and the conversation has meandered to a much different point than where it started, like the curvy line leading to the “x” on a treasure map. Once the big rocks have been cleared away, and we’re on our knees panning for smaller, less obvious gems in the dusty dirt.

It’s the type of place I wish all superficial conversations would end up — and they probably would, given enough time and the right environment.

Thank you for receiving my words, whether you read or listen to them (or both). It's a privilege to connect with you in this way. I’m glad to know you’re out there, letting me talk late into the night. And thanks for not hanging up, even if you are falling asleep on the other end of this strange telephone line.

Here’s to seeding more moments of the sacred mundane in our daily discourse.

Credits

Faith’s Hymn by Beautiful Chorus

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